Even after the fire department had extinguished the initial blaze, the bomb and arson investigators wouldn't let him look for anything salvageable, not until they were done. He hadn't fought them over it, had just stared at the oddity of his own home marked off with yellow crime scene tape for the second time in his life. Maybe there was something about the house, something that drew tragedy in some way.
But he hadn't really cared that they wouldn't let him inside; he'd been more worried about Laurey than about seeing what was left of his possessions.
She reached up and pulled away the towel, moving rather stiffly. He knew she had to be bruised from the impact when he'd hit her, but Dr. Cutler had said they would both be fine, although she'd told Gage that if he didn't stop using up so much of her time, she was going to start billing him personally rather than the city.
They'd been lucky. He knew that. The bomb squad had told him that if he hadn't jumped when he had, getting them both below the level of the porch as the blast went off, they could have been killed. But he had, and most of the blast had gone over them instead of into them. And from the initial reports, he might even have something of a house left. The bomb squad expert had told them the way it had been set up, the blast had been directed outward.
"It was a simple mercury switch. All it took was the pull of this cord attached to the doorknob to unbalance it. This thing was meant to kill whoever opened that door, not blow up the house. And if you didn't have the reflexes of a cat, Butler, it would have. And the lady along with you."
And the lady along with you… He stilled a shiver.
She began to try to untangle her hair with the small comb the hotel had provided. They'd come back here after the bomb squad had said they were fairly certain the bomb had been set and waiting for at least thirty-six hours, which put it before Martin got out on bail. With that information, Gage had talked the chief out of tossing him right back into the safe house, since it was probably one of Martin's initial attempts; Gage just hadn't been home to set it off.
But obviously that sense of being followed hadn't been his imagination. Whoever had set this—Gaylord didn't look smart enough, but then, Gage had thought he would have cracked and given Martin up by now, too, and he hadn't—had probably followed him, had maybe seen him leave the house with his duffel bag late Saturday night, figured he was gone for the weekend, then come in and rigged the door, not trusting any more futile shooting attempts.
Laurey twisted around as she tried to get the comb through a particularly tangled lock of hair. The movement made her wince, and she lowered the comb with a weary sigh. Gage moved without thinking, sitting behind her on the bed and taking the comb from fingers that he noticed were trembling slightly.
"Let me," he said.
She said nothing, but she didn't move away, so he began to work his way methodically through her wet, disheveled hair. And patiently. Every tiny tremor that rippled through her made him move more gently, more carefully. At last he had the dark mass free of tangles. But he kept running the comb through it in long, slow strokes, because she had let her head loll back and seemed to be relishing what he was doing.
Finally, with a little sigh, she reached back and stopped his hand. He thought she would move away then, but instead she leaned back toward him. He felt the coolness of the damp strands of her hair, then the softness of the thick, terry-cloth robe. And after a moment, he felt the heat of her body penetrating the cloth, warming the skin of his chest.
He cradled her there, his emotions as tangled as her mane of hair had been. He wanted to say a hundred things; he didn't want to say anything. He wanted to touch her everywhere; he didn't dare touch her at all. He wanted to run like hell; he wanted to stay like this forever.
And underlying all of it was that nagging guilt; if she hadn't been with him, none of this would have happened.
"Thank you," she whispered, startling him.
"I … you're welcome. You have beautiful hair. Even wet."
She turned her head slightly, and he saw just the corner of a smile. "Thank you. But I meant … for saving my life. Again."
He stiffened. "What?"
"That's three times you've put yourself between me and disaster."
He opened his mouth, but no words would come, no words could get past the sudden tightness in his throat. Here he'd been feeling guilty at putting her into harm's way, and she was thanking him for saving her life?
"That's a bit … above and beyond the call, isn't it?" she said. "Not that I'm not grateful, but—"
"Grateful?" It burst past the lump in his throat. "Did you ever stop to think that you wouldn't even have been in those situations if not for me?"
She twisted her head around then and gave him a rather puzzled look. "That doesn't change what you did."
"But if you… If I hadn't… It was my fault, damn it!"
She stared at him. "Your fault that some evil, sick mind with a power complex is trying to kill you for showing the world what he really is, a twisted man who'd drug and rape a child?"
"No," he said. "But if you hadn't been with me, he wouldn't have nearly killed you, too."
"Oh, no, you don't," Laurey said, turning completely around now to face him, sitting back on her heels. "You're not taking on that responsibility, too."
"I … what?"
"I'm a grown-up, Gage. I make my own decisions." Her mouth quirked. "Except, of course, when I'm ordered into protective custody."
"Exactly," Gage said, thinking she'd just proved his point. "You haven't had any choice."
"No," she said, shaking her head. "As much as I disliked being ordered, once I thought about it, I did see the sense of it. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have gone, orders or not."
"But the shootings, and the bomb… Damn it, I should have realized something like that might happen. Hell, I should have admitted what was going on before. You never should have been with me, when they took those shots, or at the house."
She smiled, and he felt his pulse give a little leap. "If you'd arrested me, forced me to go with you and all this happened, you might have a right to this guilt thing. But you didn't, so you don't."
He stared at her as she absolved him of all responsibility. He knew there were a thousand things they needed to talk about, not the least of which were all the reasons this thing that had flared to life between them could never work, but right now, looking at her, all he could think of was touching her, holding her, tasting her sweetness once more.
He tried to rein in the heat that rushed through him, wondering where the hell it was coming from, when he'd developed this volcanic ability to overheat in a matter of seconds. He'd never been one for useless trips down dead-end roads, but he seemed to be rushing headlong down this one at about ninety miles an hour. He had no place in his life for what this should be, so why was he torturing himself?
Then Laurey lifted one slim hand and cupped his cheek, and he knew why. Because even a brief, fleeting taste of this was more than he could resist. And even knowing that it would only make the time after she was gone, after she'd gone back to her life and left him to his, even harder to get through, he couldn't bring himself to pull away.
"Gage," she whispered, and the sound of his name in that tone that made him remember with vivid, body-tightening clarity just how hot, fierce and sweetly consuming their loving had been, shattered what little remained of his common sense and restraint. Desperately he hung on to one small piece, knowing he had to give her the option, even as his body hated him for doing it.
"Are you sure you want this? It's not just … reaction?"
"Trying to take responsibility for my decisions again?"
"No. But things haven't exactly been … ordinary lately. And sometimes that can affect your judgment."
She laughed, a soft, wondering sound that brushed over him like feathers, sending a tingle racing along his spine. "Somehow I don't think you and 'ordinary' go together very often."
She slid her hand down his neck until her finge
rs were next to the small bandage that covered the cut he'd sustained in the blast.
"For instance, there was nothing ordinary about what you did tonight. You saved both of us, Gage."
"I—"
She moved her hand again, putting a finger to his lips to hush him. The lightest of touches, it nevertheless sent a tiny jolt through him that made him forget to breathe for a moment.
"And there was nothing ordinary about how you put yourself between me and those bullets on Saturday."
"Just doing—"
She stopped him before he could get the words "my job" out.
"There's nothing ordinary about the way you do your job, either. And," she said, her voice going husky, "there was certainly nothing ordinary about the way you … made love to me."
Her words and the way she said them hit him as hard as any blow to the gut ever had. "God, Laurey…"
"I never knew," she said in that same husky tone. "I'd often thought something was missing, but I never knew just how much."
She leaned forward then, kissing his lips softly. In the same moment her hands slid over his chest. Her fingertips lingered gently over the long bruise that had been left by the seat belt, so gently that he felt no pain, only a touch that was almost healing. And then she moved, brushing over his nipples, and he sucked in a harsh breath. Not missing his reaction, she repeated the caress of flesh he'd never known could be so sensitive. And then she did it again, until the spark she'd created caught and began to burn. Low and deep it burned, a growing heat that forced him to shift his body to relieve the sudden, fierce pressure.
"Laurey," he whispered, cupping her face and tilting her head back. She parted her lips, wet them with her tongue. He knew it wasn't a calculated move to entice, just an instinctive invitation that he doubted she was even aware of giving.
But he was. And his body was; he was as hard now as if this afternoon had never occurred. As if the hot, fierce coupling had never happened. As if he hadn't spent himself in her so thoroughly that he'd felt as if there was nothing left.
He felt as if he'd been waiting his entire life, not merely hours, and when she looked up at him with longing and need so clearly in her eyes, he wondered crazily if she felt the same.
And then the lure of her moistened lips was too powerful to resist. He lowered his mouth to hers, and discovered that knowing to expect the electric shock didn't lessen its impact. The fire already begun within him blazed, sending hot tentacles along what seemed like every nerve, yet they all ended in one place, that part of him that wanted nothing more out of life than to be deep inside her once more. At the same time, he wanted to hold her, just hold her, to let her know how much he admired her and what she'd done with her life, to tell her how bravely he thought she'd dealt with things she never should have had to deal with.
He'd felt need before, he'd experienced desire, but never had he felt anything like this. Never had he felt such a tangled mass of emotions, so many at once. During the burglary that had resulted in Debby's death, he'd felt pure fear. After, rage and guilt. When his parents had finally given up on their marriage—and him—he'd felt abandoned.
And he'd also decided he would never, ever let himself be hurt like that again. It had seemed obvious to his twelve-year-old mind that if you cared too much for any one person, it hurt when they inevitably left you, in one way or another.
And now all his rules were shattered, made useless by the confusion within him, by the force of his need for this woman, and, oddly, by the gentleness of her touch. But right now he didn't, couldn't, care. Not when she was kissing him as if she'd hungered for him as much as he had for her. He forgot every bruise, every ache except the one growing unbearably in his groin.
He kissed her deeply, savoring the honeyed sweetness of her mouth. Slowly, languorously, he probed and searched for every bit of that enticing taste. But the ability to go slowly vanished in a split second when she copied him, nibbling at his lower lip, tracing the even ridge of his teeth, then probing beyond until her tongue brushed his. He shivered, unable to stop himself or the erotic jolt that tiny invasion gave him.
His hands went to her shoulders, slipping beneath the thick terry cloth to slide over her skin. She made no move to stop him as he gently urged the robe back. It slipped downward, baring her to the waist, and still she didn't protest; instead, she freed her arms from the sleeves and raised them around his neck.
The movement brought her closer, close enough so that the soft, warm curves of her breasts pressed against his naked chest. He smothered a groan, but it escaped anyway when she slowly moved, rubbing herself over him sinuously. He felt her nipples harden against him, and her name broke from him on a rush of breath. Seemingly encouraged by the sound, she rose, turning on her knees on the bed and moving until she was straddling him.
"You're killing me," he muttered, meaning it; he could feel her heat, hovering over flesh so rigid with the need for that same heat that he thought he would explode if she so much as touched him.
Then she did touch him, gently, caressingly, through the denim of his jeans. "Oh, I hope not. Not on your birthday. I don't have a gift for you, so this will just have to do."
He sucked in a breath and held it, fighting his body's urgent demand for release. "Laurey, I borrowed these jeans," he said hoarsely, warningly.
"Then perhaps you should get out of them," she suggested, her voice as silky as her skin. Before he could gather enough breath to speak, she had pushed him flat on his back and unzipped him. He'd drawn the line at borrowing underwear, so in the space of a hissing breath her hands were on him.
He swore, low and harsh, as she traced his swollen length. Her touch was gentle, wondering, and he arched his body toward her in a silent plea for more. She stopped, looking at him in equally silent query. He opened his mouth, willing to beg, but no words would form. So instead he put his hand over hers and curled her fingers around him, showing her what he couldn't tell her.
"So hard?" she said.
"Yeah," he gasped as his entire body tightened under her tentative caress.
"It doesn't … hurt?"
Only then did he realize her other words had been a question about her hold on him, not an observation about his condition. "Oh, it hurts," he agreed with a strained, rueful chuckle. "It hurts so damn good I'm about to lose it right now."
"Should I … stop?"
"Only if you're going to take me right now."
Her eyes widened, turned dark and smoky gray. "Like … this?"
It took him a moment to figure out what she meant. "Yes, like this. You do it. You take me, you decide how hard, how fast, how deep…"
His words trailed away, partly because they were too arousing even to himself, and partly because of the hot, fierce look of pleasure that had come over her face. Laurey rose on her knees and began to undo the belt of the robe. Gage moved quickly then, shoving the jeans down and off, mostly with his legs and feet, because he didn't want her to leave him, to move. He wanted her on top of him just as she was now, only with him buried deep inside her.
At the last second he snagged a foil packet out of his pocket; he'd grabbed a handful of condoms from the safe house, and they'd been in his pocket when he'd pulled off his worse-for-wear jeans and given them to the hotel laundry.
Before he could deal with it, Laurey had taken it. She opened it and pulled out the contents. Then she proceeded to sheath him with a long, slow, rolling motion that nearly drove him out of his mind. He was fairly sure he was whimpering by the time she was done; he was completely sure he didn't care. He'd never thought he could die of anticipation, but he wouldn't lay odds on his taking another breath if she didn't move soon.
When at last she eased herself down onto him, slowly, almost hesitantly, he closed his eyes against the fierce pleasure of it, thinking the anticipation was nothing against the reality of her closing around him, hot, slick and ready. She wanted this, wanted him. The readiness of her body fairly shouted it, and the knowledge licked at him like t
iny flames, adding to the inferno already blazing inside him.
Her head lolling back, baring the lovely line of her throat, she began to move, just a slow, gentle rocking that never should have had the effect it did. But he couldn't deny the need gripping him like red-hot talons, clawing deeper with every slight adjustment of angle, tightening with every tiny sound of pleasure she made. He reached up and cupped her breasts, his body clenching as her nipples drew up tight, as if in anticipation. It was a temptation he could not resist, and his fingers caught and gently twisted the taut nubs. She cried out, arching her back to thrust her breasts toward him, at the same time grinding her hips hard against his, driving him so deep he echoed her urgent cry.
And then she changed the motion, lifting up, then easing back down, slowly, voluptuously, as if she were using him to stroke herself. Her head came forward, and she looked at him. Her lips were parted, her eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure, lashes half-lowered, but not enough to mask the heat glowing there.
He moved a hand to the place where they were joined, suppressing the violent urge to let go the instant his eyes focused on the spot where dark curls tangled with pale blond as she rode him close and tight. She began to move in rhythm with his touch, and it took every ounce of his restraint to resist the coaxing of her body as it grew hotter and tighter around him.
And then she went utterly still for an instant. He felt the first ripple go through her, felt it in the most intimate way possible, from deep inside her body. Her thighs gripped him as she moaned.
"Gage … oh, Gage…"
He barely had time to savor the sound of his name spoken in those tones of awe and wonder. Her body clenched tightly, gripping him in a way that made his effort to wait hopeless. He gave it up, knowing she was there with him. His shoulders came up off the bed, and he clutched her, forcing her down harder against him. He let the tide surge through him, boiling up with a hot fierceness that made him cry out as the explosion took him, then left him shivering and weak when it was over. Too weak to move, too weak even to think.
GAGE BUTLER'S RECKONING Page 21
